The House That 'Hound Dog' Built

An encounter with destiny leads a songwriter and his wife to embrace upside-down living in L.A.

ENLARGE

Key Moment: Mike Stoller in his L.A. home office, surrounded by memorable photos and awards for songwriting inspiration.
Alyson Aliano for The Wall Street Journal

Feb. 28, 2013 10:50 p.m. ET

Songwriter Mike Stoller, 79, co-wrote and produced hundreds of rock and R&B hits with
Jerry Leiber.
He is author with the late Mr. Leiber of "Hound Dog: The Leiber & Stoller Autobiography." Mr. Stoller's wife,
Corky Hale,
has performed and recorded with dozens of artists—including Billie Holiday, Tony Bennett, Barbra Streisand and Frank Sinatra. Mr. Stoller was interviewed by reporter Marc Myers.

In the early '80s, my wife, Corky Hale, and I owned a 10-room apartment on Park Avenue and 74th Street in New York.

I had been living in Manhattan since 1957, where Jerry Leiber and I were writing songs for
Elvis Presley
and producing R&B groups like the Coasters and the Drifters for Atlantic Records. Living in New York in the late '50s and '60s made sense, since most major record companies and publishers were based there.

But by the '80s, most of the major labels had relocated to the West Coast, and Jerry and I were traveling frequently to Los Angeles—staying there for weeks at a time. Eventually, I suggested to Corky that we buy a small place in L.A. for our extended stays. She wasn't thrilled about the idea but agreed to look at some houses.

One day, on one of our trips, Corky went to visit a friend in the hills above West Hollywood but missed a turn. When she reached the end of the street to turn around, she found herself in front of a house with a "For Sale" sign. She's a big believer in beshert—Yiddish for destiny—so she wrote down the agent's number on the sign. The next day we went to have a closer look.

From the outside, the two-story house wasn't special—it probably dated back to the '70s. Inside, the décor was sort of odd—there were flower decals on the kitchen walls and different wallpaper patterns in each of the small rooms.

I loved the place and wanted to buy it right away. The house stood on top of a high hill, and the view was like being in the cockpit of a jet coming in for a landing. For me, we'd be acquiring a spectacular view with a little house attached. It also was half the price of anything we had seen in Beverly Hills. We closed on the house on Dec. 31, 1986.

Our plan was to spruce up the house and rent it out when we were in New York for long stretches. When the fix-up was completed in early '87, we moved in. Almost immediately, Realtors began knocking on our door to tell us we could get $10,000 a month if we let them rent it out. But Corky and I had had a change of heart.

Contrary to our expectations, we were spending more and more time in L.A. After a year of back and forths, I said to Corky, "Why don't we sell our New York apartment and move out here permanently?" In 1989, we did just that.

But if we were going to relocate, we wanted to build our dream house. So we moved into a sublet condo and demolished most of the house—keeping the chimney so the work would qualify as a redo. Corky had found a terrific designer, and we worked with her on a three-level, 9,000-square-foot house.

Our new home was completed in 18 months, and we moved in at the end of October 1991. It's actually an upside-down house. In most traditional homes, you enter the living space and go upstairs to private areas. Here, you enter the living areas and descend by staircase to the other two levels. But none of the levels are below ground. They are stacked on top of each other and built into the sloping hill—from the street level down.

When you walk through the front door, you're immediately in our living room—where we have two Steinway grand pianos and Corky's two harps. Our kitchen and dining room also are on this level. The pianos are terrific for Corky, especially when an equally accomplished pianist comes over, and they play together. Her harps are special for me. I met Corky in 1966 and we were married in 1970, but I fell in love with her years earlier when I heard her accompany singer Kitty White on an album.

Our master bedroom and bath are on the middle level, along with Corky's office. My office and a guest room are on the bottom level, where there's also an exterior deck and pool.

The view is really something. We see the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island off to the right, downtown Los Angeles to the left—and everything else in between. Some days, I look down and see hawks flying, and in the winter there are beautiful cloud formations. I love to look at them.

On my office walls are dozens of photos—including one of Jerry and me with Elvis—as well as Grammys and other honors on shelves. All of these things come in handy. When I'm trying to write and nothing is coming, I can look up and tell myself, "I fooled them before and I can fool them again."

But seriously, all of the photos and awards represent the musical journey that helped build this house. Jerry and I began collaborating as two young kids in 1950—writing songs like "Hound Dog," "Kansas City," "Jailhouse Rock" and, later, "Is That All There Is?" The music took good care of us as we got older. Jerry died in 2011, and I still miss him.

As a young child who lived in the basement of a small house in Queens, N.Y.—where the windows were just below the ceiling and I could see only shoes walking by—the view I have now is important. I feel like I'm defying gravity—physically and mentally floating. Does it help me creatively? I don't know. But it doesn't hurt.

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